A Toast to Good Company
by fierysuzaku
Summary: Whether it is a glass, a pint or a simple cup, any beverage always taste better when you're in good company.
1. Chapter 1

**A GLASS OF WINE**

He's in quite a mood tonight. He can feel the familiar pin pricks of nostalgia pervading upon his consciousness as he takes a sip of the fragrant burgundy.

_Magnifique!_

The bittersweet tang of finely aged wine bleeds through his senses. The scent. The taste. The all too familiar laxness burrowing into bones as he all but melts into the couch – pajama bottoms and all.

He is comfy.

Cozy.

Warm.

Feeling oddly poetic.

_All the more fuel to make the fire of nostalgia burn._

_Amongst the gray fog he will wait_

_Full of emerald fire with a glow so faint_

_Held by brambles and rocks so sharp_

_His voice echoes with enmity like a broken harp_

His memory sings of untamed lands and marsh.

Bright feral eyes of youth snarling and hissing like an angry wildcat, his strange tone drips with unintelligible words of what he can only assume to be dislike.

"_Who are you?" Gaul asks, his blue eyes never daring to stray. The eyes shine through the mist, curious and suspicious. He dares to take a slow cautious step further into the coiling gray of shadows and greens, the child backs away bristling in turn. _

"_I mean no harm!" he calls out only to receive a low warning growl as twin fires throw him a baleful glare. His voice snarls – far too small to be a sign of any harm._

At least, that was he thought at first. Scrawny. Short. His head akin to a nest full of leaves and twigs. His eyebrows, _very_ heavily defined.

Little did he know of the chaos that wild child will bring upon the world – it was rather unnerving to be honest, for such a small thing to grow so big.

"_You don't belong here!" the strange child says, surprising Gaul of his clarity for Gaul does not speak this land's language. _

_**So how**__, he wonders only to realize why._

_**A nation, just like me**__, he realizes, now, full of awe and wonderment. He rarely accompanies Rome on his journeys across the waters – preferring to listen to the romanticized tales of wilderness and savagery (a woman with eyes as green and feral as the child before him... clashing swords and angry sneers as her long braided hair whip around like a vicious snake with each flurried strike of her spear) – he was happy that he did. _

_He looks up, suddenly realizing his wandering thoughts only to his disappointment, find the strange nation gone._

They met again, under Rome's house and rule –the child more sullen than angry. More bitter than feral. Different in a certain sense, but still very much recognizable. A bit taller. More flesh on the bones. Unusually _silent_. Eyes still bright green yet less of the burning fire he saw on that one foggy day when he ventured briefly out of Rome's sight.

He no longer hears the stories of the wild woman with green eyes.

The years pass and shift, they grow and change. They acquaint themselves with each other to the point of eerie familiarity.

Promises.

Broken promises.

Rarely kept ones.

Their dynamic becomes ever so confusing and connected.

Until this day, he continues to insist.

_I regret nothing. _

_Gone was the light once bright_

_Squashed and trampled by hate and fright_

_Bitter seeds the once pure heart now dark had sown_

_Crushed away by a creature of mint and magic blown_

Eyes half-lid immersing in centuries old memories of Gaul and Albion, he takes time to follow the strands of the past, deeply meshed and twisted by age.

He hates feeling so old.

He hates how reminiscent he becomes on such unexpected times.

He hates how he never seems to be able to fully let go of the past despite the passing centuries.

But then again, the act is a commonality among their kind.

_Like Angleterre's magical friends, for example. _

England is a child of magic and it will be a very cold day in Hell if he ever decides to renounce their existence. In fact, it is ever clear that those creatures hold a special place in the island nation's heart – perhaps the only place left within him that is untouched and child-like.

France still has the Sight and he _knows_. He still sees the glowing lights fluttering about England's land and how the nation is almost always accompanied by a flying mint-colored rabbit if he is home.

_He always had a thing for rabbits_, he muses, recalling at the images of a smiling child surrounded by lights and glitter. His lips curl into a small smile when the memory lingers on the day Albion met his first rabbit. It was the first time he saw the child genuinely smile for something so non-magical.

He should have known to treasure such things. For such smiles are long gone.

"_You are awfully quiet, Albion," he observes, fully expecting – at the very least – a bristling retort only to meet still cold silence in turn. _

He frowns, the wistful smile now gone. He remembers that night all too well. Rome carrying a bleeding Albion after the child nation ran away _again_. He recalls the thundering beats of his heart, afraid for the unconscious boy.

"_Get some clean water and bandages," Rome orders them (Hispania and he) as he places Albion on the bed. They quickly scurry away, fearful of Rome's stern tone and dark look. _

One always knows when the Roman Empire was angry.

Not the type to keep emotions at bay. Always loud, expressive and rude.

It is when he is _quiet_ that one should worry, for there is nothing more frightening than a brooding empire waiting to explode.

_His usual grinning features gone, his dark brows furrow while his lips thin with unspoken emotions. Albion's eyes flutter open, his lets out a loud grating gasp and a cough so strong his small frame shakes. _

"_Leave us!" Rome barks, dismissing them with a stern glare as he shut the door behind them. _

To this day, France still doesn't know what _exactly_ happened. Only _inklings_, never the full story. It was only centuries later that England _hinted_ that it was a family matter and he shouldn't bother with such things for the British Isles are actually getting along nowadays– if you call constant jibes and wrestling matches 'getting along'.

"_Gaul, do you fear death?" Albion asks, startling him. It's been more than a week since Albion spoke to him. His voice detached and cold, his gaze straying into some far away land – it made him uncomfortable._

"_W-What? W-Why would you ask such a thing?"_

"_Why should I not?" he quips with one thick brow arching in question. "Are you not curious?"_

_**Because it is horribly morbid of you and no, I am not curious**__, he wants to say but refrains. _

Death is a rather uncomfortable topic for young nations. They inherently know they cannot die so easily, but they have no desire or curiosity to experience it.

"_It was horribly painful you know, dying I mean," Albion confesses, a sliver of vulnerability appears only to be hidden away by the slight tilt of the head and haughty demeanor._

_He pales at the admission, "y-you mean, Rome –"_

"_Rome? Ha!" Albion scoffs, "I wish," he whispers more to himself as he shifts his gaze towards the distance only to narrow and darken with such bitter __**hate**__._

It took a long time for England to regain his usual vocal attitude. However, instead of finding new ways of crossing the wall, he was usually found venturing into the deep forests and never returning for days on end.

Rome was unusually lenient with those little adventures unlike in the past where England was all but shackled to the room to prevent him from escaping and joining his savage brothers.

"_Leave him be," Rome says as he spies his worried gaze._

"_He will come back when he is ready," he adds and Gaul only nods, curious of Albion's new found freedom._

_One day he decides to follow him. Into the deep dark woods full of mist and shadows, he hides behind a thick tree full of moss and age. He gasps at the sight before him– hundreds of lights swirling about, along with the sound of laughter. _

_It was __**him**__, dancing with bright green eyes and __**happy**__. _

_**Actually**__ happy. _

_**How long has it been since I saw him smile? How long has it been since actually talk? How long – **__he asks himself so many questions only to feel his chest burn as a heavy weight settles at the pit of his stomach when he fails to recall any recent date of it. _

_He turns back, leaving Albion with his fae. _

The next day, when Albion returned, he forcibly shoved food down his throat and told him to eat because he looks like walking stick. Albion growled and he growled back.

It erupted into a wrestling match and ended in bruises.

The laughter and the teasing came later.

_Much_ later.

"_Gaul… going to the woods for a few days… want to come?"_

_Amongst the lands and riches be_

_He grew and grew but never free_

_Caged by shackles none could see_

_Only to be freed by the songs of the sea_

He cannot deny that every nation has had their moments of arrogance and conceit. _They_ cannot deny that. Even the _young_ ones cannot deny that.

But their arrogance today is _nothing_ compared to that of the past. Europe is a prime model of it. They were powerful immortals with heady influence at the mere touch of their finger tips. Worshipped and prayed upon like living deities.

_It does not take a genius to figure out that such monotony brews of idle and strange thoughts._

On England's case, it was him leaving his unsuspecting Welsh brother in charge to go on gallivanting on pirate ships stealing gold and leaving a trail of broken hearts (human and nations alike) with each passing port.

He is no fool. He does not call the man the 'Erotic Ambassador' for nothing.

He reveled in his freedom. He thrived in the chaos. For the first time in a long time, he allowed the shackles of nationhood to break as he fell head long into the red abyss of lust and adventure.

_It was just the world needed, rampant teenage nations, _he snorts recalling how it was not only England alone that fell prey to the beckoning sounds of freedom. There was Spain. Prussia. Portugal. Almost everyone decided to take a _little_ break from nationhood.

"_You were all a bunch of self-entitled dicks." _

As America so eloquently puts it.

_The pot calling the kettle black, are we not Amerique?_

The glass clinks. The wine pours. He cannot help but note how much redder real blood truly is. Wine looks far too thin and feels far too cold to be blood. It does not cake and flake. Nor does it burrow under your nails and cling to your skin after a long hard battle. It does not linger for centuries on end, no matter how many baths, lotions and soaps one uses – the scalding thick sticky feeling of it in your hands remains.

Wine _stains_.

Blood.

Blood _taints_.

He holds his hand up against the fire and wonders if his fellow nations feel it too.

_He finds him. Away from the clanging chaos of battle. Away from the pained cries of their men. Away from the river of blood painting the deck dark. _

_In a different time and era, he would have deigned a greeting. His fingers curl upon the sword hilt as he rushed for the attack taking in the nation's unprepared counter. His lips curl his teeth bare and sharp as he drove into the weak defense. _

"_How like you, to be so defenseless, __**mon lapin**__."_

_England snarls –full of indignation and bite. The sight delights him as he pressed the blade further against his enemy's blade._

"_Come now, no one likes a poor loser. Just admit it and accept you fate as French territory," he croons, his voice soft and sweet with a hint of reprimand. _

Oh, how those emerald fires _**burned**_.

_Of course, in his brief distracted observation, England manages to get a better grip and push him back. But not before gracing him with a butt to the head. _

And practically _everyone_ knows just how hard-headed the little island nation can be.

_I still have the bumps to prove it_, he chuckled in momentary amusement.

_He lets out a groan of pain, momentarily blinded as the smaller nation takes advantage delivering a swift kick to the side sending him breathless._

_He hears his ribs creak and crack. England wastes no time and tackles him reversing their positions. _

"_The __**Hell**__ I will. But perhaps __**you**__ will become English territory for me, Frog," England whispers breathy and rough against his ear, he gasps when long rough fingers wraps around his throat. Their eyes meet – too close, too intimate – and for a moment he lost himself in the swirl of emeralds and gold. _

"_Yield."_

_He grins and rasps. _

"_Never."_

_Bit by bit did the ice slowly melt_

_Emotions once foreign now eagerly felt_

_Only to be crushed by harsh destiny_

_Gone again the light till perhaps, infinity_

He was never the same after Elizabeth. When his beloved queen died, his grief was so palpable even from across _La Manche_.

He grew more isolate and taciturn as the days passed.

_**Never**__ a good sign when it comes to him._

It didn't help matters when he was to serve a _Scottish_ king in her place. He even demonstrated his displeasure by taking up piracy once more.

"_Fitting, is it not? I took the seas for her and I return to it for her." _

The king welcomed it – allowing him to take his grief to the seas instead of the delicacies of court politics.

It took a few years before anyone realized that he truly meant to give up his nation and people.

The very thought of England fading into the waves like foam makes his heart twist.

It took a navy and a year's worth of searching before the British brothers managed to drag him back to English soil.

_But perhaps his greatest hurt came from Alfred. _

Not America. Not the nation. But the boy who smelled of sunshine and wheat. The boy who smiles so bright and hugs so tight your ribs threaten to crack. Yes, _that_ boy.

"_Why are __**you**__ here?" violet eyes narrow in suspicion as he gives the young colony a small smile._

"_A visit," he explains making the boy frown and glare. He quickly notes how similar Matthieu can be to Arthur when angered or offended. They sport they same glare and distinctive scowl._

"_That look does not fit you, __**mon petite**__," he chides hoping to lighten up the mood. _

"_Why are you here France?" he speaks as cold venom drips, "have you and America not done enough? The revolution was won, now leave him be!" _

_France tries coaxing once more, and to his surprise, the colony refused to budge._

"_**No.**__"_

"_I'm not going to hurt him, Matthieu."_

_The child __**scoffs**__._

"_Of course not, you already did!" he barks as he slams the door to his former guardian's face leaving him in the cold._

_Yet he grew still ever ruthless and cold_

_The sun never setting, the stories told_

_All harshness and angles, softness gone_

_So much damage, they remained undone_

"_It is not like you to be so lost in thought, Amerique," he says, watching the blue eyes brighten with alertness, no longer fogged and muddled by unspoken brooding. _

"_Is something wrong?" his brows furrow with worry, as the usually talkative nation kept _mum_. _

"_They won't talk to me. Mattie won't even let me near him anymore. Arthur doesn't even bother showing his face," he admits as his eyes darken with memories of harsh rejection._

"_Aren't you trading now?" he asks, confused how Arthur managed to keep his distance from the young nation. _

He expected a lot of bristling from England's end. Harsh words and sharp glares. Never cold indifference. Especially with a child he had held so dear, but then again…

_Is it not whom we love the most who are the hardest to forgive? _he thinks, briefly going back deeper into the past when England spoke those three words to him.

"_I hate you."_

"_Good, I hate you too."_

That fateful event sparked a litany of wars, betrayal and tears. Scars and blood. Victory and sacrifice. History has marked them. Conjoined their destinies into one strange tapestry of alliance and animosity.

For they are England and France.

It is written upon their lands and their people.

They fight together and against each other.

_Entente Cordiale._ A Cordial Agreement.

"_I'm trading with the __**British**__ Empire. I'm more likely to see all three of them together than him. They don't like me either," Alfred frowns, dejection clear upon his features. He reaches out, gently patting the boy's back as Alfred chokes out a sob clearly near his limit of holding his emotions in._

"_They said I went too far," his jaw tightens as his hands curl into tight balls on his lap. _

"_I hardly think Arthur's brothers are the best source considering how their relations are with him," he scoffs and frowns, "Hush… hush, I am sure England with come to terms with your separation from him. You will grow and he will learn and move on. Take it from me, that little rabbit will come around," he assures, gathering the upset boy in his arms allowing him to take shelter, away from politics and conflict, it is just him and Alfred. _

_After their moment of comforting silence, he speaks._

"_Do you regret it? Fighting for your independence."_

"_What! No! Of course not, it's just that –" _

"_Then, there's your answer. I'll be blunt Alfred. Relationships are never solid. Our kind does not have that luxury. Enemies today allies tomorrow, it is hard but we must learn to accept how fickle humans can be." _

Yes, the life of a nation is both beautiful and cruel. They will have the luxury of seeing their people rise and improve. Weather out the harshest storms, stomp out the wildest of fires. They get to see humanity's highest moments as well as its lowest and most cruel.

"_Mattie called me __**America**__. He __**never**__ –" _

"_Alfred." _

"_I just want my brother back, Francis. I. want. him. back." _

"_And you __**will**__. Listen, you were both hurt during the war. You both bear wounds and scars. They may hurt __**now**__ but they will heal. Just give it time."_

"_And Arthur?"_

"_Only time will tell, mon petite. Only time…"_

He never had the heart to tell him that England had always been the most cruel and unforgiving when hurt. He knows where to punch, push and poke. Never enough to break, but just the right pressure and barb to make one's heart clench and bleed.

_And one day his sleeping heart awoke_

_Beating, damaged and broke_

_Tears fell like steady streams_

_Eyes opened to the sight of moonbeams_

The World Wars changed them all. A change so sudden that everything went off kilter and continued spinning until every single one of them was on the floor confused and trying to figure out what in the world was happening.

Some were ripped apart, wounds corroding and marking through their flesh as they scream and beg for everything to stop. Some rose better than ever.

They remember the times when such things pumped more adrenaline and heat through them like nothing else. Now, now, war held nothing but nightmares and blood.

Bombs.

Trenches.

Camps.

Everything was chaos. He felt himself fall.

_Hard._

Trampled and broken underneath surrender and defeat.

His wounds bled and festered like a cancer spreading through his veins as his people fell back and hide.

_La Résistance française._

That was his only reminder that he was still fighting. He did not just lie down to lick Germany's boots. He did not fully surrender. A part of him was still fighting.

Still _alive_.

_He wakes up bandaged and bruised. He could feel his infected wounds closing up and the bleeding stop. His blue eyes flicker open, gauging the scene before him._

_**Paris**__. _

_He was in his capital. __**Another**__ contribution to his recovery. He takes one harrowing breath, the air felt different for some reason, lighter, fresher. _

_A ridiculous thought. _

_**Maybe this is all a dream, **__he concludes as he notices the flowers perched at bedside – red roses and white lilies. He __**thinks**__._

_His vision was still patchy and blurred, a lot things happened in those camps and he prefers not to delve further into those dark __**dark**__ times._

"_You're an idiot."_

_It was a harsh rough whisper barely audible in his current state but despite that his body already reacts towards the other nation's presence._

_**Angleterre**__. He takes in the fellow nation, he looked unusually healthy. Bright green eyes, he was thinner sure, but he still had that posture of superiority and confidence France no longer has the energy to sport. He looked __**well**__, healing and fighting. _

_To be honest, he didn't know if he should feel happiness or anger. Happy Britain is alive and well or angry because he is. It is so damning, how he, the one who gave up ended up worse than the one who struggled and fought through the bombs and rationing._

"_**Don't.**__ Stupid, Frog! Do you have any idea what you put us through?" displeasure vibrates through his frame as he continues to rant about his cowardice and inability to follow through the plan. "__**You**__ were to meet me in London. __**You**__ were supposed to be there! You __**told**__ me! You __**promised**__ me! Dammit Francis I thought – _

_**He thought what?**__ he wonders as he took notice of the strange inflection and gasp that cut of the rest of the sentence. He looks __**again**__, a bit harder, a bit longer and __**sees**__. A tiny spark of vulnerability and worry, a bit of the edge and roughness pushed away for him to discover just how badly weakened and hurt England was. _

_**I'm sorry.**_

"_No, don't you dare give me that look. You are __**not**__ sorry. You are __**never**__ sorry. Just rest up, hopefully, you'll recover better now that you're here." He bends down to fluff his pillows, France catches the bandaged chest and bruises. Now that he's nearer he could make out the redness of his eyes and the gauntness of his pale features. _

England was not _well_.

"_I'm going out to run some errands, I'll see you in a bit," he says before grabbing his cane – grip firm and steady for support – and took leave. _

It was just moments after Arthur returned with a bag of croissants did he notice that he never spoke a single word since he woke up and that England, proud haughty _England_, spoke to him in prefect _French_.

_Dreams and reality mix_

_All knew there was no easy fix_

_None can tell how this story so strange will end_

_Yet for now, let us all wish for a happy finish and pretend._

The pen dips against the paper eliciting a crinkling sound along with the soft snaps and cracks of firewood, the ink stains its thin surface as he ended the verse. His lips move in silent whispers, mouthing a words as it rolls out upon his thoughts.

"Never thought of you to be so depressingly poetic, Frog."

He starts and turns, meeting a pair of curious bright emeralds while he fights through the stutter that threatens to spill from his mouth.

"A-Ah, _mon lapin_. Home so early," he grins, face flushed and warm, whether it's from the wine or the mere prospect of his poetry being read without his notice by the very subject of it, he does not know.

"It's almost midnight you dolt," he points out while Francis casually steals a glance at the old grandfather clock at the corner. His eyes widen in realization.

_Mon Dieu._

"Oh my, I must have been too lost in thought to notice," he laughs it off, gracefully evading the scrap of poetry held between the other nation's clutches. How it got from his lap to its current destination is a mystery to him.

_The wine is getting to me._

"This is unusual of you, Frog. I expected you to be in bed, hogging all the blankets and leaving me to freeze my balls off," he says crudely as he shook off his coat and scarf but still leaves the Frenchman with a few layers to undress.

"Honhonhon, I am flattered mon lapin, you know me so well."

A tie slips through his fingers as he playfully curled his arms around the other's waist.

"You're not spying on me, are you?" he teases, pulling Arthur closer making their eyes meet while their forehead brush and their breaths mingle.

The belt buckle _chinks_.

"Please, you're just horribly predictable," he scoffs but he slips his arms around the other.

"Am I now?" he smiles – soft and gentle – and pulls away with the piece of wrinkled ink stained paper held between his fingers.

_Success!_

"We both know the real answer to that," he snorts and moves in to grab some of Francis' wine while he gives the Frenchman a long contemplating look.

_We aim to be predictably unpredictable. _

Arthur sighs and takes a sip, "You worry too much sometimes".

"Maybe you're rubbing off on my _rosbif_," he teases making the other scoff and tell him not to think too much or his brain with fry.

"Oh? Yours must have been burnt into cinders then… just like everything you cook," he counters, and Arthur smacks him lightly on the shoulder as he casts him an irritated glare.

"You're pushing it, Francis."

"_Desole, mon coeur,_ old habits die hard," he shrugs and takes the glass from Arthur and pours himself more wine but not before leaving a quick kiss upon the Englishman's lips.

"True… but for the record, your story does have a better ending," Arthur says as he hold up the paper, Francis reaches and Arthur steps back, pulling out a pen and scribbling on it before handing it back to him.

Francis reads.

His heart flutters and swells.

"Believe it or not, France, I did get my happy ending. And I am more than willing to go through the rest. Happy or otherwise," Arthur whispers, his hand warm against his cheek as he sports those rare smiles of his before taking the glass and draining it dry.

"Now, I'm tired and we both need to sleep," he declares and tugs at Francis' sleeve.

"Bed, now."

Francis smiles and follows.

The next day, he wakes up to read it again. Trace his fingers over the stains and marks of ink and smiles.

**_Dreams and reality mix_**

**_All knew there was no easy fix_**

_(None can tell how this story so strange will end_

_Yet for now, let us all wish for a happy finish and pretend.)_

**_Yet this strange twisted story did end_**

**_A happy finish of love and cheer none can contend._**

**-end-**

**A/N: **This is my FrUK Gift Exchange for theawesomehero on Tumblr. I apologize for any overlooked mistakes in grammar and spelling.


	2. Chapter 2

**A PINT OF BEER**

**one of those times he wishes he was drunk but not…**

The pint to lager sloshes and spills across the table as the mugs slam in harried unison while the crowd shouts and cheers. England wonders how a simple offer of drinks turned into this strange courtship ritual of slamming down various amounts of alcohol and spewing out random tidbits about one's self.

_I'm too bloody fucking sober for this shite, _he thought as he drains his own pint while he watches the two nations make themselves the entertainment for the night. Granted that said entertainment was usually in the form of him, Prussia and Denmark braying out songs in sheer drunken dishevelment, but that's another story all together.

"You're looking unusually sober."

_Unfortunately._

He harrumphs as a signature well-catered glare is cast, the receiver simply preens with amused glee.

"Why are you here, Frog?" he asks not because France was not expected to be here. He's just early.

_**Too**__ early._

"A little bird told me you needed the company seeing your buddy for the night decided to cast his attentions elsewhere," France admits with a smirk as he watches said drinking buddy make an utter fool of himself.

_As if that's anything new._

"By bird you mean a loud mouth Prussian eagle. I don't suppose I should throw in a Great Dane as well…" he bites out, as he signals for a couple more. As most nations may not believe, he can actually hold his alcohol just bloody fine. He just doesn't know when to stop or pace himself sometimes so he gets sloshed faster.

France laughs and England has to remind himself that now would not be a good time to knock out his designated driver for the night.

"They're just a bit upset you decided to go drinking without them," he points out earning a scoff as England slams the mug with a strong thud.

"Bunch of immature brats, they are," England grouses casting his gaze once more to the direction of the drinking contest.

"Who?"

_The two drunkards or the pair idiots who just confessed their love in a sudden spurt of drunken confidence to a crowd of strangers? _

He heaves a long harrowing sigh.

"Both."

**before a single drop of alcohol was consumed… **

"Aw, come on. Please," he bats his lashes and gives out that all-too-familiar pair of puppy dog eyes.

"For the last time, no," he bites out, annoyance strong in his voice as he glares at the young upstart before him.

"Come on, you never turn down an offer," he whines daring to sport a damn quivering pout that makes England want to– if not for the lobby of curious spectators – smash his fist in, because he was tired and while a nice pint of lager seems heavenly, he _much_ prefers the warmth and peace of his bedroom.

_**Not**__ the rowdiness of a pub with an overly enthusiastic nineteen-year-old – who seems to have suddenly developed a curiosity to how I spend my drinking nights – in tow._

Personally, he blames a certain pair of loud-mouth idiots who just can't seem to let those nights of wild abandon rest.

"Did you, or did you not just hear me repeatedly turning you down?" his eyes narrow and his arms cross against his chest.

He refuses to give in.

"You're no fun."

The comment actually struck a nerve.

"I'm _plenty_ of fun. _You_ just have lousy timing," he refutes, poking America in extra emphasis.

"No, I don't. You just don't want to go drinking with me," he retorts as he stubbornly holds ground.

England inwardly groans, cursing the heavens.

"We're finally getting on the crux of the matter. Yes, America. I do not want to go drinking with you!" he snaps all fire and bite only to falter when a pair of blue eyes softens with genuine hurt.

"Why?"

"Because!" he struggles to regain his previous momentum and fails, "I'm bloody tired and I want a few moments of peace before everything turns into bloody Bedlam again," he sighs, as he pinches the bridge of his nose reigning in back his calm.

"You just want to cuddle up with France…" America grumbles.

"I do not!"

"Yeah, right. I get it. The centuries have finally taken their toll on you."

_The nerve!_

"I'm just gonna ask someone else, like China for example."

_Over my dead body! _

"Fine! I'll go. But listen here you manipulative brat, if I end up babysitting your arse the whole bloody night, there will be Hell to pay," he declares in poking emphasis as he tries to ignore the smug triumphant grin on America's face.

"Psh, you're one to talk. Who was it that dragged your drunken ass back home again? You know, _before_ you and France decided to work out a system."

England snorts.

The said system was simple: Don't get drunk at the same time or you'll both regret it. And if they do get drunk (under unavoidable circumstances), they must make sure to call Canada, not America because he likes to take videos and shares them to everyone.

"Oh, belt it," he says as he shrugs off the blurry memories of an exasperated American dragging him home and back to bed.

"And don't act as if you're the only one who'll come to my aid!"

"Oh? Give me a list then. Maybe we can swap stories."

"Canada. I distinctly remember Canada helping me and sending me home properly. Sometimes, it's Japan…and... Russia, when I mistakenly drank his vodka thinking it was water that one time," he answers with a hint of reluctance, not failing to miss the flicker of acknowledgement in the boy's eyes slowly clouding with suspicion.

"What?"

"I was already sloshed. Forgive me for not noticing the difference," he drawls out with a deadpan look.

"No, I mean you drink with Russia?"

Was it just him or did he not just detect a hint of edge on America's tone.

_But then again, this is Russia we are talking about…_

"Yes, sometimes. Purely, innocent. Well, as innocent as we're capable of… oh, calm down. He didn't do anything," he says inwardly hoping that America will not rush off looking for a fight about Russia taking advantage of his lowered defenses.

The lack of vocal declarations is unnerving. It makehim wonder if there is another motive behind this offer.

_I am going to regret this_, he sighs.

"Come on, I know a good pub," he declares, snapping the young nation out of his musings as he drags him out to the nearest pub.

**in which the influence of alcohol slowly creeps in… **

The pub buzzes with life. He feels the warm fuzz of alcohol-induced marry making melt the cold nips of the night air upon their fingertips.

"A bit rowdy, tonight aren't they," America comments while England gave him a look.

"Never been to a pub have you lad," he jeers making the other flush and open out a retort which he effortlessly ignores as he flops down on one of the stools and calls out to the bartender for a couple of pints. He expects it to gradually increase in number as the night wears on.

It was all fine and dandy until…

"So you and France…"

_Blunt as always I see, _he sighs as he focuses back on his drinking companion.

"What about it?" he drawls out – alcohol already taking its toll on his senses, making him feel more lax and open. And by open, it means answering strange out of the blue questions from an overly curious American.

"Well… you two have been fighting for a long time and I was wonder…"

"How either of us is still alive?" he cuts him off as he continues to a long list of offenses that occurred between them.

"Why, there was even the time when – "

"No! I mean… Well…"

"It's not like to be so inarticulate, Alfred," he observes, finding the image of America grappling for the right words both amusing and suspicious.

"It's just that… I don't understand how you guys manage to get along so well… despite everything…"

"Despite all the wars, betrayals, lies and blood that paved our histories you mean," he says bluntly, the lack of retort makes his eyes narrow, his mind racing for conclusions as America's lips thin and fidgets in discomfort.

"What is this _really_ about, Alfred?"

"How?"

His mind be lagging because clearly he missed the rest of the sentence.

"Pardon?"

"How do you guys do it? How do you make it work?" he asks, England can feel the cogs in his brain working out a proper explanation for this turn of events.

"How do we manage to shake off our people's influence you mean?" he reiterates and Alfred bites his lip in response. The action itself sets off a few alarms.

The discomfort.

The lack of eye contact.

The strange questions.

_Oh._

"You shouldn't force yourself you know. It takes time… learning not to succumb to your people's influence is a long hard process. I'm sure, you'll grow to control yourself better in –" he says, venturing into a thought which he hopes to lead towards the main point of the matter.

"But I want to learn control now!" Alfred declares, blues eyes bright with fire and frustration, startling him with its intensity.

Alfred must have decided to read the atmosphere for once and calms down, settling back to his seat and takes large gulps of his drink.

"I'm tired okay," he admits with a deep sigh, reminding Arthur just how this nation before him had changed. "Everything has been piling up and going to shit. I… I can't think straight if I keep having the public's opinion ramming into my skull," he adds, his features shifting into neutral and contemplative.

"You asked about France and I… about our relationship. Does it bother you?" he prods, there is a certain thing he dislikes about the consensus, how public opinions shape and change their personalities.

Their views.

"What?! No! Are you kidding! I totally ship you two!" Alfred gives him a bright goofy smile and a thumbs-up.

"I don't know if I should be disturbed or not by your form of support."

"What's wrong with it?" Alfred blinks, all naïve and clueless.

"Nothing. But let's stop deviating from the topic at hand shall we?" he says they fall in silence once more.

"What are you so worried about?" he asks, hoping that he'll open up.

The seconds tick, and he waits.

The rowdy noises and shouts dwindle towards the background as his thoughts flee elsewhere.

"I…"

The thoughts halt and his attention shifts.

"I feel _so young_ sometimes… I take everything so personally and I… I don't know if what I feel is real or just another consensus…"

He takes a pause and recalls the past events once more.

"_So, you and France…"_

_Could it be?_ He wonders, his emerald gaze taking in the young nations discomfort and hesitance.

_Well, it's worth a try._

"Dare I ask… who's the unfortunate soul that you had taken a fancy to?"

A blush.

An episode of gapes and arm flails.

_Time for the finishing blow._

"It's Russia isn't it," he concludes and the blush reddens even further.

"W-What! I d-don't know what t-talking about!" America denies, a nervous laugh escapes his lips.

"You're stuttering," he points out, suddenly making America turn for the defensive.

"No, I'm not! Besides, what does that commie bastard have to do with it?"

A pout.

A cross of arms and a redirected gaze.

Arthur briefly wonders what so interesting about the pub's dirty floor.

"Well, you asked about my relationship with France… and… well, I could only assume you want to better relations with Russia… considering how you two fight as much as we do…" he explains making the other wince.

"Was I _really_ that obvious?" he dares to ask.

"Well…" Arthur hesitates to answer.

"Fuck! Everyone knows don't they! I bet there's a poll or something… with bets on when we'll finally get together," he cringes, giving in a bit to the dramatics making Arthur's eyes roll.

"Speaking from experience?"

"Well, yeah! I like won a thousand bucks on poll about when you and… oops."

"That's okay," he assures, surprising the American.

"Really? You don't mind?"

"No, but please do make sure to make up for it by holding off your confession for at least a week or so."

"What?!"

"Don't worry, lad. I ship you two too."

He dares to let his lips curl into smirk.

"You know what! I don't want to know who else is in on this. Though, I already have rough estimate on who… "

"Oh, relax would you. It's just a bit of fun," he says as he pats Alfred's back as they deviate and went on to other topics of interest.

Eventually, as biology and nature dictates, Alfred crudely excuses himself for a piss. Then, at that exact moment, when his gaze shift, he was met with a couple of indignant gazes.

Dark ruby and icy blue.

That is practically the point where everything begins practically rolling down the hill.

"England?!"

_Oh, bollocks. _

**where the alcohol starts wearing off…**

"Let me guess, that's when you met Prussia and Denmark. How did they even provoke, the child?"

"They told America that Russia and China are plotting world domination," he explains as he shoulders the unconscious American unto his shoulders while they walk towards the car.

"And he believed them?!" France exclaims in disbelief, pausing briefly to turn and hover the key over the lock just so.

"In all honesty? No. I think the git just wanted Russia's attention. Anyways, America rushed off, confronting them with this insane traide of accusations," he mused, finally getting a good grip on the boy. He would have teleported him instead but he already used up his magic to transport Russia.

"Honhonhon, little America was jealous?" His eyes were practically twinkling as he opens car door and England position America in.

"The only thing missing was to paint him green. Eventually, it led on to an argument which got them into a drinking match," he quips, joining France at the front and straps in.

"Ah! But not an ordinary drinking match. I believe it's one of those games where they must finish a pint of lager as fast as possible and answer the first question they hear," he grins as he drives, recalling the blushes and looks of shock that were plastered on the nation's faces before England decidedly thought that, it was enough entertainment for one night.

"Yes. Now that I've answered your questions, kindly assist me in dragging this dolt back to his room!" he glares while the other chuckle at his situation. But nevertheless, France agrees instead of letting him suffer for it.

When they finally arrive at the hotel he hooks one of his arms around the unconscious American and helps England drag him to his suite.

"We wouldn't be dragging an unconscious American right now if you didn't feel the need to cockblock the child. They were getting along quite nicely before you decided to smash them in with those strange spells of yours and send the Russian back to his hotel room."

"It's either that or me personally slamming their heads on to the table," he grumbles as he takes America's key and opens the door, "Besides, I am not allowing Alfred to make decisions based on alcohol. If they really reciprocate such feelings, they should work it out sober and sane."

The statement makes France scoff.

"Sober? Possible. Sane? We wish, _mon cher_."

"You know what I mean," he sighs as he tucks America in.

"I know. You don't want Alfred to question himself and do something he'll regret the next day. Ever the dotting mother hen…" he teases, noting that Alfred is now wearing a pair of comfy sweats instead of his jeans.

This, quite predictably of course elicits a faint blush on the Englishman's cheeks.

"Shut up, Frog."

**events prior to the inevitable headaches the next morning…**

"The stars are beautiful tonight," Francis remarks as they make their journey back to their hotel after parking the car. Upon noting the lack of response, he chose to continue, "too bad we missed our chance, it would've been nice to lie and cuddle underneath such a starry night."

Still no answer.

"I'm not upset… there will many more nights for us," he says as he moves to hold Arthur's hand.

"I know."

Francis decides on another angle of approach.

"They will work it out you know. _We_ worked out just fine."

Their eyes meet under the moonlight and stars.

Unspoken words.

Shared memories and more.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Their time will come," Arthur smiles as he inches a bit closer, muttering something about the cold while he laces their fingers together and share a kiss.

He was really _really_ cold you see.

**-end-**


	3. Chapter 3

**A CUP OF TEA**

He glares at the kettle with a strange mixture of avid fascination and unmatched frustration. One would think that after _centuries_ of life and experience, he can manage to make a decent pot of tea. Strike that, he doesn't need decent, he needs perfection.

Why?

Because as much as he doesn't care to admit, he quite likes it when a certain grump of a man gives off that tiny aura of satisfaction that makes his features soften and his lips curl up just so. And apparently, much to his constant aggravation, nothing seems to give him that kind of relaxed satisfaction aside from that sordid serving of leaf water he commonly calls as tea.

Which is why he is here, in Canada of all places because as much as it was easier to ask around in Europe. It will be a very cold day in Hell if he asks Portugal for help. It is not that he _doesn't_ like the Iberian nation, in fact he finds him charming and quite a nice fellow to talk to. Except.

_**Except.**_

Anything that pertains to a certain island nation with bushy eyebrows because those two are like two peas in a pod sometimes and they have this uncanny way of communication that on occasion tends to irk France because, England is supposed to be _his_.

Not in the possessive sense of 'only I can do and know these things', but more on the, 'I know him better so fuck off', kind of way that doesn't really bother him much except on certain instances when the damn Portuguese offers him some tea time.

And he _knows_, it shouldn't bother him. It was purely friendship, sure there were _some_ instances _centuries_ ago when it could have been more but that was so long ago and this is now.

He sighs, only to notice in sheer dismay that he over-boiled the water.

_Merde. _

He swears, bites his lips and threads his fingers through his ponytail wondering why he even bothers.

_I should just learn to accept it_, he thought as he flops down onto a nearby chair after turning the stove off. He visibly winces when he notices that time. He was trying to brew tea for hours with a very tolerant and kind Canadian as his taste tester.

He takes note to give Canada something nice after this and resumes his internal moping.

_Damn it!_

He can cook, bake and pretty much anything that is in correlation to cooking but brew tea? The heavens decided to be ironic with that little tidbit.

"You all right?"

He starts, shoulders stiff as he turns towards the direction of the voice.

"I'm fine, _mon petite_. Just a bit frustrated," he admits, casting a long look at the cooling kettle that seems to mock him with each failed attempt.

"You're just thinking too much about it," Canada assures in an effort to keep his dwindling self-esteem on the fine art of tea brewing from falling into lovely little pieces.

"I just don't get it, _Mathieu_. Everything about cooking comes easily as breathing. I can whip up a decent dish on first try. I can bake the perfect cake with the icing sweetened just right but for the life of me, I cannot seem to be able to brew tea of all things," he says with exasperation, as he watched the young nation sigh.

"You know he won't leave you because you can't brew tea right?"

The question makes him pause, was he worried?

"No. Of course not, it's just tea. Not the make-or-break moment of our relationship. I know that. It's just…" he sighs, brows in a furrow as he meets the curious violet gaze.

"Well, I don't know why you chose me of all people. I mean, wouldn't it be better to ask India since he and Britain traded with the stuff. Or Portugal can – "

"It's okay," he cuts him off, not too sharp but enough to make a few sparks of understanding dawn within those violet depths, " you've been a lovely teacher _mon petite_, I'm just a very bad student," he adds in jeeringly, hoping Canada would just ignore the tiny white elephant at the corner of the room.

"Oh, I don't know about that…"

"_Non_, it's true. You should put yourself down like that, _mon petite_," he assures, giving the mop of soft blond locks a nice pat.

"Neither should you. So you can't brew tea the way England likes it. Big deal!"

"I know," he agrees, he has been telling himself that for so long, "it's just so frustrating. But nevertheless you are right. I shouldn't be beating myself up for such petty things."

"Good. Now, you've done a lot today and you really need some shuteye. Do want something a drink? To calm the nerves before bed," _Mathieu_ offers with a small smile.

"That would be lovely, but hold the tea," he says, making the other chuckle and answer.

"Don't worry, I have just the thing."

"Wine?" he ventures.

"No. Better."

"Better than wine. It's not maple syrup is it?"

"Partly… but I'm sure you'll like it. Go relax and prepare for bed while I make it," he replies as he takes over the kitchen.

France nods in ascent as he made his way to the guest room. After a quick shower, he was all snuggled in the warmth of thick heavy comforters, perfect for the chilly weather. He hears a couple of soft knocks and calls out for Canada to enter.

The young nation comes in holding a steaming mug and some biscuits.

"Here, try some," he offers while the Frenchman examines the contents of the much.

"Milk?"

"Milk and maple syrup actually. I have it after feeling stressed or upset. Really helps," he explains.

"It does. But I use honey on mine. I used to make some for England when we were young. It helped calm him down and rest after a day of running through the forests or fighting with his brothers," he recalls, turning nostalgic as the image of a wild child of eyes green as the forests of his land runs through his thoughts only to be cut short by the Canadian's enlightened comment.

"So that's where it came from."

"Excuse me?"

"The drink," Canada explains gesturing to the drink nestled between his hands. "England makes it for us, says that whenever we feel too upset to sleep. He always says, 'a cup of magic will always help'," he adds in, surprising France.

"M-Magic?"

"Well, not _real_ magic. It's just something he used to say to make it seem extra special," Canada says with a soft chuckle, his eyes becoming soft as warm memories of childhood come.

"O-Oh."

A stutter and a blush.

_He still remembers?_

"Are you okay? You look a bit flustered," Canada notes, and sometimes France wishes the nation would be as dense as his brother.

_He is so sharp, it's frightening at times._

"No, no. I'm fine. I just didn't expect him to…" he trails off, a small smile curls upon his lips without his knowing.

"To remember the recipe?" Canada ventures.

_It is a recipe? A mixture of warm milk and a small dollop of honey. One can't really call it a recipe can they? _He briefly pauses for thought before answering.

"Yes, to be honest, I thought he had forgotten about it."

"Really? He used to have a habit of making us all a cup before bedtime, right after the stories."

Then, all the little bits and pieces start to make sense. The bottles of milk that seems to be too much just simply for tea. An unwashed mug sitting on the sink lacking the distinctive discoloration of tea after a rather stressful day. The constant supply of honey.

"I-I see. Thank you, Mathieu," he says as he hands out the now empty mug to his host.

"You're welcome. Goodnight, Francis."

He leaves and Francis sleeps, dreaming of memories, of colors of gold and green mixing and matching in a strange menagerie of emotions and fuzzy characters.

"_What's in this thing?" The green eyed rabbit asks the golden frog._

_The frog smiles and answers, "magic."_

He goes home the next day, and was welcomed by an irate Englishman standing on the rainy airport entrance with a black umbrella.

"You shouldn't have," he purrs and the other predictable scoffs.

"You're right, I shouldn't have."

_But he did so anyways._

"I missed you, mon lapin," he whispers, sneaking in a soft kiss to the cheek.

"I missed you too, Frog," Arthur whispers back in response, with a telltale dash of pink upon his pale cheeks.

They arrive late, after a case of baggage problems and traffic with a pace that can match a horse drawn carriage, they can finally ease themselves into the cozy warmth of Arthur's home.

"It's good to be home," he sighs, pausing to take in the fatigue and heaviness cast against his lover's features.

"It has been a long day, _mon lapin_. You should rest," he says as he sets his bags on the floor.

"That should be my line… what were you doing at Canada's house anyways," Arthur retorts, lacking the usual bite and ire denoting just how tiring his day was.

"Oh, just catching up on certain things. A bit of bonding…" he trails off.

"Is that so…" his green eyes narrow in suspicion.

"_Oui._ Now, we should both call it a night. You go ahead, there's something I need to do first," he declares as he takes his bags which England immediately took away from him.

"You can unpack tomorrow."

"Fine, I'm just going to fix us a drink for the night. So go on right up, and I'll follow."

"Fine," England relents as he returns the bags to the floor and makes his way up to the bedroom.

Moments later, he reappears in their bedroom with two mugs of warm honeyed milk.

"A cup of magic, _mon coeur_?" he asks, as he offers up the mug to a very surprised England. The surprise eventually morphs and turns into sputtering and blushing. To be honest, he half expects England to douse him with said 'cup of magic' as a defensive reflex.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he takes the mug and curls up against the blankets just so, while he silently finishes the drink with a small smile curling upon his lips.

Once done, France moves the cups towards the bedside table before burrowing within the blankets for more warmth. He was already half-asleep when he felt a pair of petal soft lips kiss his nape and whisper, "Thanks, Frog."

**-end-**


End file.
